It Only Takes A Taste
by awomanontheverge
Summary: Jillian Holtzmann/Erin Gilbert (Holtzbert) "It only takes a taste when it's something special. It only takes a taste when you know it's good. Sometimes one bite is more than enough To know you want more of the thing you just got a taste of."


**BREAKFAST**

Early morning sunlight shines through the firehouse windows and tickles Erin's face. She wakes slowly, her eyes remaining closed as she cracks her neck and shoulders. They're sore and tender, assuredly the result of her falling asleep at her desk. She tries not to make a habit of it – more often than not, she goes home to her apartment – but she had been so engrossed in her research and writing that she lost track of time. Squinting, she looks over at the digital clock in the corner of her desk.

 _5:15AM._

Erin groans.

She _could_ go back to sleep, but she knows she'll probably toss for an hour before eventually getting up, so she decides that coffee is the best option.

With a groan, she gets up from her desk chair and stretches, letting out a little groan as she does so. She shuffles through the dimly lit room, down the hallway and toward the kitchen, her bare feet making a "swoosh" sound against the hardwood floor as she walks. Erin's not even sure if anyone else is there, but if she's awake at 5:15am, then everyone else can be as well.

Rounding the corner to the kitchen, she stops abruptly at the sound of tools on metal.

" _Too early for this_ ," Erin thinks to herself, closing her eyes and rubbing her forehead before making her way into the kitchen. Expecting total and complete chaos, she's pleasantly surprised to find Holtzmann in front of the stove with a variety of bowls, frying pants and utensils. Holtz sways her hips back and forth to a silent tune and focuses intently on the onions she is chopping on a dark blue cutting board. She bites her lip as she dices; onions shouldn't be this sexy, Erin tells herself, but somehow the engineer manages to surprise her with every little thing she does.

"Holtz?" Erin says quietly, stepping further into the kitchen but trying her hardest not to scare Holtzmann, who appears to be in her own little cooking world.

Holtzmann turns her head and smiles. "Mornin'." She looks back down toward the cutting board and continues prepping. "You're up early."

"I could say the same," Erin responds as she moves toward the coffee maker. She chooses a Keurig cup – French vanilla – and sets it in the machine, which sputters to life and begins brewing.

"I do this every morning." Holtzmann tosses the newly diced onions into a frying pan, which sizzles to life with the addition. The scent of butter and onions quickly fills the room; Erin hears her stomach growl.

"Really? _Every_ morning?" Erin stands on her tiptoes and grabs a coffee mug from the top shelf, then sets it in the Keurig. Hot coffee sputters into the cup.

Holtzmann simply responds with an "mmhmm", then goes back to her work dicing a variety of peppers. They're brightly colored and perfectly crisp, coming apart with a small "crunch" as Jillian quickly runs the knife down the center.

Coffee in hand, Erin shuffles over toward the stove. She blows on the top of the mug before bringing it to her lips and taking the first sip. "What are you making?"

"An omelette with peppers, tomato, spinach, onion and feta cheese."

Erin's mouth waters.

"I wasn't expecting guests," Holtzmann teases with a wink. "If you're going to be in my kitchen, then you might as well help."

Erin laughs and raises an eyebrow. " _Your_ kitchen?"

"Less talking, more helping." Holtz points to the refrigerator before grabbing a spatula to toss the onions and butter sizzling on the stovetop. "Grab me the eggs and milk."

Erin takes another sip of coffee, then places it on the counter. She walks over to the fridge and searches for the items Holtz had requested. "You know, I find it hard to believe that the woman who lives on Pringles and Twizzlers cooks like this." Once the eggs and milk are found, Erin saunters back over to Holtzmann's side with an ingredient in each hand.

"I'm a woman of many talents." Holtzmann turns and winks.

Erin's not quite sure why it causes her to blush.

"Besides, those are snacks, not meals."

"Ahh." Erin laughs softly. "Makes _total_ sense then."

Holtzmann ignores her, instead reaching for the carton of eggs and a bright yellow bowl at the corner of the counter. With one swift movement, she cracks each egg with one hand, the yolks and whites falling into the bowl with a quiet "plop!". Erin finds Holtzmann's movements captivating as her fingers twist and flick rhythmically; they're an engineer's hands, moving methodically and with precision, and she can't help but wonder what else Holtz can do with such talent.

Next, Holtzmann grabs the whisk and pours a small bit of 2% milk into the bowl alongside the eggs. The icing on the cake, Erin decides, is when she brings the milk to her lips and takes a swig out of the carton as though it's a bottle of Captain Morgan's.

"Really?" Erin says dryly, snatching the container from Holtzmann's hands. The other woman smiles, and it's only accented by the milk mustache around her lips.

Erin suddenly finds herself wanting to lick it off. Holtz opts to wipe it off with the back of her hand.

Without a word, Holtzmann begins to whisk lightly yet quickly, folding the milk and eggs over one another in a repetitious motion. They quickly incorporate into a perfect omelette base.

"What now?" Erin asks.

Holtzmann puts the bowl aside and gives the onions a stir once again before walking over to the refrigerator. She sticks her head deep in the fridge and searches. "Sausage or bacon?"

"Hmm?"

Jillian reappears from the depths of the refrigerator with a package in each hand. "Sausage" – she shakes the package in her left hand – "or bacon?"

"Ooooh, ummm…" Erin thinks for a moment. "Bacon, I guess."

Holtz snorts.

Erin furrows her brow and crosses her arms across her chest. "What's so funny?"

"I fancied you a _sausage_ girl."

It's quick and playful and makes the breath catch in Erin's throat.

Holtzmann saunters back over to the stove with bacon in hand. She grabs the scissors and opens the packaging before tossing the meat into a large skillet on the back burner.

"It depends on what I'm in the mood for." It's the best comeback Erin can devise quickly; she feels the heat creep from the bottom of her neck and behind her ears.

Holtzmann turns to her with a smile and steps forward, their faces and bodies close. "So, Gilbert, what have you been _in the mood for_ lately?"

Erin licks her lips and leans forward a little, close enough that Holtzmann can smell the French vanilla coffee on her breath.

Suddenly, they're interrupted by the sound of bacon sizzling. Erin never thought she'd be able to say that breakfast food had twat-blocked her, but she supposes she can cross that one off her bucket list.

"It's showtime," Holtzmannn says excitedly, rubbing her hands together. She reaches across the counter for the egg and milk mixture as well as the spatula she had used earlier. With a grin on her face, she pours it into the pan and it begins cooking with a soft "psssst". Next, Holtz grabs the remaining vegetables – peppers, spinach, tomatoes – and tosses them into the pan, then accents the top with a handful of creamy, crumbly feta.

This is what heaven smells like, Erin assures herself.

"Brace yourself, Gilbert. You're about to take the wheel."

Erin's eyes grow wide. "Me? Oh no, I don't cook. I burn toast."

Holtz gives her the side eye.

"Seriously. Have you ever seen a Charlie Brown Thanksgiving? Me." Erin points to herself. "That's me."

The comparison makes Holtzmann snort. "C'mere." She grabs Erin's hand and pulls her in front of the stove. "Follow my lead," Holtzmann instructs, stepping behind her and pressing herself against Erin's back.

Erin whimpers. It's soft, but a whimper nonetheless.

Holtzmann grabs the spatula and places it in Erin's right hand. Gently, she rests her own hand on top and, like a marionette, guides Erin's motions, running the spatula along the edges of the egg to slowly form the shape of the omelette. "Relax," she whispers in other woman's ear, and Erin swears she feels Holtz lick her neck. "You're so tense. You'll taste it in the food. Relaaax".

Pressed together, they continue to work at the omelette until it's mostly cooked through, fluffy and yellow and slightly melty from the feta.

"The big finale!" Holtzmann says excitedly as she instructs Erin to drop the spatula and grab the arm of the pan in both hands. "We're gonna flip it. Ready?"

"What?!" Erin sputters. "No. It looks so good and I'm gonna fuck it up. Seriously, Holtz, just take it from here-"

"Feet firm. Knees slightly bent. Check your grip." Holtzmann puts her hands over Erin's once more and gives them a little squeeze of encouragement. "Flip!"

It's like slow motion, watching the omelette rise from the pan and spin slightly in the air. Just when Erin thinks it's going to plop down on the center of the stovetop, practically miles away from the pan, Holtz changes their angle and they catch it together, the egg beginning to sizzle once again.

Erin squeaks with delight. "We did it!"

" _You_ did it," Holtz congratulates, removing her hands from Erin's and giving her shoulder a little squeeze. "Well done…for a beginner."

"I'll get better with practice," Erin assures. She watches as Holtzmann grabs two plates from the cabinet and begins assembling their breakfasts like a piece of artwork. Every item has an exact place and Erin doesn't question it; she simply watches with adoration as the artist paints her edible canvas.


End file.
